


something dark rises (underneath the skin)

by moodyreindeer



Category: Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Character Study, Gen, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 03:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20735675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodyreindeer/pseuds/moodyreindeer
Summary: With Rachel's physical manifestations getting worse, she decides the best thing is to keep them to herself.But when has she ever gotten her way?





	something dark rises (underneath the skin)

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this instead of sleeping.
> 
> i've been on a titans kick for the past week and have! so! many! feelings!!!
> 
> especially about rachel, because she's so powerful and my fave.

Rachel has a theory.

The marks are just a warning. They hurt—sting like a _ bitch, holy fuck _—but they aren’t meant to do any real damage. No internal bleeding, no pulpy organs, no irreversible damage.

It needs her. If Rachel’s physical form collapses, the darkness loses its vessel. If she dies, so does any chance of the darkness manifesting itself into this dimension.

So it will rough her up, push her around, mark its territory. Whatever; she can handle it. Rachel has dealt with bullies all her life. What’s another one to add to the list?

* * *

In a demented way, Rachel is almost thankful. The injuries have stayed in relatively discrete areas: three slash marks down her right side; five long claw marks that stretch from her stomach to the small of her back; and one long, deep one that starts between her shoulders and ends at the base of her spine, like something tried to split her open and rip her skeleton loose. Easy to hide—she throws on a baggy shirt and it’s done with. Out of sight, out of mind.

(They only happen when she sleeps. She can almost pretend they are just nightmares, subconscious, other-dimensional figments of her imagination. But then she’ll startle herself awake and her entire torso will scream like it’s on fire and she remembers. She lays completely still and waits for sleep to return; sometimes it never does.)

There are a couple times where Rachel thinks Gar knows something. She’ll walk into the kitchen, slow enough to ease her body and be mistaken for early morning grogginess, and he’ll keep his eyes on her as she pours her cereal, then her milk, and begins robotically lifting her spoon. He tries to be inconspicuous, but his gaze burns.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” She plays dumb.

Gar fidgets guiltily and goes back to shoveling eggs in his mouth. “Nothin’, just dozing off.”

With the old Titans making frequent visits, along with the new bloods’ training, Rachel thinks she can get away with it. At least for a little while longer at least—just until Kory gets back, maybe a month or so past that, if things at the Tower get too crazy and the team can’t afford the burden. Besides, it’s not like they can climb inside her head and do anything about it.

No, this is just problem Rachel has to deal with on her own.

(About time. Murdered mother, demonic and psychotic biological parents, vessel of world-ending evil—she really should start acting more adult.)

Dick barely gives them enough time to wipe the crust from their eyes and get something in their stomachs in the morning before he’s shoving them into the training room. Ever since the combined business of Deathstroke and Dr. Light, he’s become a rabid instructor, barking new regimes faster than they can keep up. Although Rachel flops onto her bed in utter exhaustion every night, she’s secretly thankful for his hardass attitude. The stronger she gets physically, the better she gets at anticipating an opponent’s moves, maybe the harder it will be for the darkness to use her as its punching meatbag.

The day Kory calls to say she’s three hours out from San Francisco, Dick has all four of them training at once. It’s not that unusual, but instead of breaking them into pairs, he pits them against each other: Rose and Rachel with dual sticks against Gar and Jason with swords. Rachel hasn’t trained with Rose often, but knows from watching sometimes that she can be ruthless—all offense, all survival instinct. From the little bonding they’ve done Rachel thinks Rose would defend her if necessary, but knows it won’t be her first priority. Rachel respects that, even if it goes against Dick’s team-loyalty shtick; it gives Rachel the motivation to fight harder for herself.

As soon as Dick leaves, off to another original Titans-only meeting, Jason lunges for her, leaving Gar to guard Rose.

Ever since the incident with Jason, he’s been wary of her, keeping his distance. He doesn’t protest when Dick has them train together, which Rachel appreciates, but he retaliates by doing as much damage to her he can that doesn’t involve actually touching her. He plays dirty, aims low, corners her and strikes before she can get her bearings, leaving her sweaty and scared and feeling equal parts defeated and frustrated.

Today is no different, except that Rachel expects his anger and plays it to her advantage, playing all defense. She tucks and rolls, flips out of his reach, knocks his sword away with one stick while keeping him at bay with the other. It’s a bit like dancing, and she likes the lightness it makes her feel, the grace and speed it requires. It’s something she wouldn’t have been able to do three months ago, and hungers for what improvements the future will bring.

(Also, she revels in the way Jason’s face turns red with anger. If there’s one thing he hates it’s being predictable, but his need to lash out at her has drained him of the ability to try anything spontaneous.)

She gets a little cocky and can feel her guard slipping. When Rose lets out a grunt as the force of Gar’s sword forces her stumbling backward, Rachel glances in their direction with her back turned to Jason, mid-turn.

He takes the wide open opportunity to flip his sword and slam the blunt handle into the small of her back.

Rachel dies.

* * *

Hank gets cut off as a scream shreds through the tower. It’s not a scream of anger or triumph or shock, but pure, unbridled pain. The kind heard from stab victims or someone running for their life, desperate for anyone to hear. 

Donna’s out of the room before the sound can fade into an echo.

When the rest of them arrive, Donna has her lasso roped through her hands, poised for throwing as she coldly asks the room “What. _ The fuck _. Just happened?”

Dick pushes his way to the front, surveying the scene. Gar has been discarded to the edge of the mats, sitting with his legs sprawled in front of him, mouth hanging open, utterly dumbfounded.

Rose has Jason incapacitated. She holds one staff at his throat and the other pressing down hard on his wrists, sword knocked to the ground. Her eyes are narrowed dangerously and her mouth is pulled back to show her teeth, begging for a reason to rip his throat out. Jason, for once, looks unsure of himself, looking to the center of the room.

In the middle of the mats, the area around her cleared as if her screams alone emptied a ring of space around her, Rachel lays curled up, forehead pressed to the mat, arms strewn at her sides as if she couldn’t gather the wits to hold them. Her body is wound so tight it shakes with tension, her breath coming out in dry sobs. Her shirt rode up in her fall, exposing the pale skin of her back and the ferocious red of long gashes.

Dick has Jason slammed to the ground before his brain can even registered he’s moved. He keeps his arm pressed down on his throat, knee gathered underneath him to press on his ribs. “What the hell did you do to her?”

Whether it be accusation or the harsh tackle, Jason snaps out of his stupor, his defiant gaze meeting Dick’s furious one unflinchingly.

“I didn’t do anything. I hardly fucking touched her all training.”

Dick knocks his head into the ground. “Bullshit.”

Jason rears his mouth open, looking ready to spit, when Dawn loudly calls Dick’s name. She and Donna have circled around Rachel, blocking her from the room, a modicum of privacy that lets them examine her wounds.

Donna turns, and Dick can see Rachel’s gone limp, fallen onto her side, head lolled and eyes closed. Dawn holds her shirt up, showing more lines that seem to curve around her entire torso.

“These lines are old. A week old, at the least.”

“And they’re deep,” Donna adds, frowning, “much deeper and neater than anything these training swords could have done.”

Reluctantly, still looking to target his anger, Dick climbs off Jason and gets to his feet, addressing the room.

“Then where the fuck did they come from?”

* * *

Rachel floats in between the existence of one world and the next. Inky coils wrap around her throat like the digits of a phantom hand; her body aches as it’s lulled with movement; she can smell the ocean and fresh cotton and an undertone of sweat—_ Donna _—before something solid hits her back and fire erupts; her mirror self dances circles around her, eyes black and bottomless, exposing its canines like it’s ready to eat her whole.

_ Just end it_. She begs nothing, something, herself. 

_ Just end it and be done._

* * *

Rachel pries her eyes open and doesn’t move. She feels stiff, stiffer than usual. Her shirt feels tight across her stomach, her skin near-freezing. She recognizes the ceiling as her bedroom, not the squared one of the training room.

She takes some deep breaths, the big, slow meditative ones Dick taught them to do, and cranes her neck. Her eyes meet a pair of bright green one staring right back at her.

“Kory,” she tries to exclaim with some confidence, with some relief. It doesn’t work, coming out with the squeak of a mouse.

“Hey, kiddo,” Kory greets, standing from her chair. “Want to tell us what’s going on?”

It’s only then that Dick materializes at Kory’s side, arms crossed and brow furrowed in typical Dick fashion.

Slowly, Rachel pulls herself to a sitting position. She touches her stomach and feels the bulk of something tied there; ice packs, held in place securely with the help of thick bandages and injury tape. 

“Why ice packs?” she asks, stalling.

“You’re wounds were inflamed, Rach.” Dick steps closer, knees hitting the side of the bed. “They looked ready to burst open. What the hell happened?”

Wincing, Rachel reluctantly tells them. She can feel her independency draining with every word, not that she was ever that independent to begin with. If she was, she would have found a solution, or at least been able to it secret for longer than now.

“I think it’s a warning. A threat from whatever’s inside me.”

“A threat for what?” Kory asks. “What does it want from you?”

Rachel shrugs. “Control, I guess. It wants to be the one in charge. But I’m its only physical connection to this world, so it can’t do any real damage.”

“Looks like real damage to me.” Dick glowers as if she’s done this just to offend him. 

“But it can’t _ kill _ me. It needs me. If my body dies it has nowhere to go except back where it came from, and that’s the last thing it wants.”

“Why didn’t you tell any of us?” Kory presses. “Dick or me or Donna. Or hell, even one of the other kids.”

“Because this is my problem!” Rachel restrains a groan of pain as she punches the bed. “Everyone else has too many other things going on. Deathstroke, and Dr. Light’s back! Everyone needs to be fighting or training or defeating something. This is my responsibility, it’s inside me. And as long as it’s still inside me, no one else is getting hurt, or killed.”

The room falls silent. Rachel’s panting, upset and full of energy she can’t direct at anything lest she disturbs her injuries more.

“Rachel, look at me.” Dick settles at her feet. “_ Look at me _. I don’t give at shit about anything else that’s going on. Something’s wrong, you come to me, or Kory, or someone who can help.”

“But—” 

“I don’t care about what’s been happening! This team is first priority, and that means you. And it especially means your health. What if this had kept up and I didn’t know and sent you out into the field. You’re risking yourself and the rest of the team when you fight in anything but your best physical condition. What if someone found your weaknesses and used them to kill you?”

Dick has her ankle in a vice grip, staring into her eyes and seeing her all the way down to her pit-black core.

Furious at him for treating her like a child, furious at herself for thinking she could handle it, Rachel shrieks, letting out her anger in choked breaths as hot tears drip down her face. She ducks her head and wipes harshly at her face, furious at them most of all for making her look so weak.

The bed dips beside her and strong arms gingerly wrap around her shoulders and legs, pulling her close.

“I tried so hard,” Rachel vents bitterly, glaring at her comforter. “I tried to beat it, to let it know that it wasn’t in control of me. But it still ruined everything anyway.”

Kory runs soothing fingers through her hair. Dick loosens his hand on her ankle so his grip is more comforting. 

“If there’s one thing I know, it’s that you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met,” Kory murmurs into the top of her head. “No matter how mean or violent this thing inside you is, it was also stupid for thinking it could ever win against you.”

Rachel stutters out a laugh.

“We’ll figure something out,” Dick insists. Rachel looks at him from beneath the weight of her wet lashes. “This thing has to come from somewhere—another world, or dimension, or something. Wherever that is, someone probably knows about it. Your dad wouldn’t have been able to get such a following if there was evidence that he can from somewhere.” 

“But we’ll do it together.” Kory pushes her to arm’s lengths to meet her eyes. “No more solo acts, okay?”

Rachel lets out a shuddering breath.

“Okay.”

* * *

Late at night, Rachel limps her way to the kitchen, in search of something hot and dense to fill her growling stomach. She fills a pot with milk and digs through the pantries for some chocolate powder. While she waits for it to steam, she slices a loaf of French bread and sticks a slice in the toaster. 

Something scrapes against the floor and Rachel turns, knife held to face level, arm tensed.

Jason gives her a flat look, pushing the chair he tripped over out of his way.

Rachel relaxes and turns back to the toaster just as the conveyor belt pops the slice out. She spreads a thick pad of butter on it and plates it, giving her milk a mild shake of the handle. 

Jason moves behind her, but she doesn’t acknowledge him, just listens. The fridge opens and closes; a cup clinks against the counter top, followed by the thunk of the juice carton. Rachel pulls out a mug and pours half the container of powder into the pot, stirs it deftly with a spoon. Jason’s watching her, but unlike Gar doesn’t even try to hide it. She can feel his eyes melting holes into her back.

He doesn’t say anything until she’s poured the hot chocolate into her mug and settles into a seat diagonal from him, not going to let him discontent her.

“Seen that priest yet?”

Rachel sips her drink, looking at him over the rim. He doesn’t appear to be hostile, although hostile was his default setting. His eyes are lidded and casual, not wide and full of the fear she’d seen them have that day in the training room, when she held him in the air by his throat. His posture is relaxed, not combative. 

Rachel sets her drink down. “Do you really think there’s a priest out there that won’t run away screaming at the sight of me?’

Jason smirks.

Rachel takes a bite of bread.

They don’t say anything after that.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hey on my [tumblr](http://spideypetes.tumblr.com).


End file.
